Houseplant
by Lady Mirelle
Summary: Sherlock is becoming a houseplant. John takes things into his own hands. More drabbles, for Beth. About half an hour. Mostly fluff/arguing. Not explicit but slashy.


Sherlock was staring at the wall again. He had a good 30 pictures stuck up there relating to his latest case. John didn't even see why this case was interesting to him. He'd been curled up on that couch for almost a week now. He hadn't even bothered to take off his scarf when he'd come in a week ago with this case and he was starting to smell terrible. John couldn't bear how he was starting to act like a non-human again. He was turning into a house plant.

"Sherlock, you're turning into a house plant," he declared, throwing himself down on the couch beside his roommate. When Sherlock didn't respond, he cleared his throat. "You're starting to smell like a corpse," he tried. Still no response. "Will you take your bloody clothes off and have a shower?" he asked, snappily. Sherlock's eyes slid slowly from the wall to John's face. He looked very cat-like with his sideways leer and his hands arched under his pointed face.

"Come on." John grabbed him by the scarf and started to pull him up.

"Hey! I'm in the middle of- ow! John!" John was now physically dragging the detective by the arm towards the bathroom. It was difficult, because Sherlock was much taller, but his slender physique was no match for the stocky doctor, who ploughed towards the bathroom with determination.

"I'll strip you off and hose you down myself if I have to," he stated, pushing his roommate into the bathroom and pulling the scarf off his neck.

"No, I have to-"

"NOPE. Shower. Now." He pushed Sherlock back inside and shut the door behind them.

"But-"

"No buts." He tugged Sherlock's coat off his lithe frame and started to unbutton his shirt.

"Oh, come on," the detective sighed, pushing John's hands away and nodding towards the door.

"Not until you get in." John folded his arms, using his speaking-to-a-naughty-child tone. Sherlock grumbled but took off his clothes. The doctor wasn't embarrassed by naked bodies. He was a doctor after all, but there was something a bit strange about seeing his roommate naked for the first time. He did often wander around the flat in his underwear but he didn't usually get everything out.

Sherlock stepped into the shower and switched it on. Satisfied he was actually going to clean himself, John made for the door but suddenly he was soaked from head to toe. The sound of Sherlock's laughter made him turn on his heel and wrestle the shower head from him. Once the water was under control he gave Sherlock his sternest look and, avoiding eye contact with the detective's genitals, stripped off his own clothes before climbing in with him.

"I said I'd clean you myself and I meant it. I'm not having the whole flat stink just because you're obsessed with some pointless case."

"Hey," Sherlock snapped, grappling with John for control of the shower head, "this case is not pointless. It's crucial."

"Why?" demanded John.

"Because Mycroft didn't want me to take it."

Annoyance bubbled up inside John's chest. He pushed Sherlock up against the wall, his face coming almost to the top of the taller man's chest.

"This childishness needs to stop. It's irritating and it's making my life a misery."

Sherlock's angered expression faltered, his piercing eyes softening slightly.

"Are you … thinking of leaving?" Leaving me? It hung in the air between them, something unspoken but almost concrete. John's heart lurched and suddenly he was choked up with tears.

"N-no, of course not, you're my … what on earth would I blog about if I moved somewhere else? Where would I go?" He let his arm drop and he accidentally brushed his fingers against Sherlock's thigh. Their breath mingled.

Sherlock took hold of John's hand and placed it on his hip. Of his own free will, the doctor pressed Sherlock back against the wall and took his bottom lip into his mouth. The shower head clattered to the floor as Sherlock's hands slipped around the back of John's neck.

The short man stood up on his toes as his bit into the childish detective's lip. With a soft grunt, his fingernails bit into the flesh of Sherlock's hip.

The curly-haired detective started to turn away from him. John smiled to himself. Maybe Sherlock was a bit better than a house plant.


End file.
